Roundtable con Mis Abuelas

If I was lucky enough to have a roundtable conversation one more time with mis abuelas, which would be difficult by the sheer fact that they were completely opposite women, but indulge me here, it's my fantasy, it would go something like this:

We would be sitting around mi nona, or abuela Francisca's wrought iron courtyard patio in a house that was claimed long ago by 3 deadly earthquakes until none of her children could help rise again one more time. It would be the three of us with a tetera of hot mate and tortitas de chicharrones that my abuela Francisca made so well, at the center of the chairs. The family would all be gathered but like a picture where the background is fuzzy, they would just enhance the ambiance without interjecting.

I would ask them how they did it. How did they handle it all without going crazy, without allowing depression or anxiety to take over their days. Both women were totally different. They were of different classes, mi abuela Juanita came from a very poor background with divorced parents, both of who gave her away to be raised by different relatives that treated her to in servitude (her and her 3 other sisters), until being reclaimed by their loving, yet alcoholic father. Mi abuela Francisca, married well to my grandfather who provided a house in Mendoza City, and through his traveling salesman positions provided well for the family, until he died young. Both women were very busy - Juanita had 3 children (two girls and a boy) one of whom is my mother, and Francisca had 4 children (3 boys and a girl) one of whom is my father.

Personality wise, Juanita was a melencholic, lamenting woman, always sighing "Ay Dios Mio" under her breath, regardless of what she did and for whatever reason. Francisca on the other hand, was a strong stoic woman, rigid and harsh in discipline with a very stern eye. Both were really hard working and loved their kitchens. Both loved to sweep and keep impecable households. They both loved their children and meddled in their lives, in some more than others. But what I really remember now about them was the manner in which they went about their days, from the eyes of a 9 year old girl. While I remember the happy times of familial joviality during weekend get togethers, I am drawn now to the body language and their facial expressions which are so vividly sketched in my mind.

I remember Juanita always over her kitchen counter what essentially was the smallest, humble kitchen ever- just a stove, sink, and barely any space to cut up vegetables, but she seemed to manage. I remember always sitting at the small two by three-foot kitchen table watching her as we talked with mate or tea, bread and butter and maybe some cheese. She always slaved to make the healthiest and most aeromatic soups I've ever had the pleasure of tasting, day after day. Making every penny, or moneda stretch was her forte. While she was cooking she was also hand washing clothes, always with a large basin on a sink near between the small bathroom and the kitchen, and a wooden washing board. Until of course my parents bought her a new washer when my dad came to the U.S. Although she was short, I remember her always hunched over, as if beaten by life, her head would barely raise from what she was doing, but her eyes were the conveyer of emotions. They were eyes of a little girl in an old, worn by life woman. So much suffering and pain in them with a tiny glimmer of light, that I think my sister and I provided her. We truly were her "mis princesitas," "my little princesses." I just wonder if what made her so sad, now looking back, depressed, was her horrible past that she seemed to never come to terms with or was it something else. But even before her children were grown with their own life disappointments, how did she get through those days. The days of cooking, ironing, cleaning, stretching pennies. What were her thoughts, illusions, dreams? How did she handle the childrearing? I know she ruled them far stricter than us, she was putty with us. Gave us anything that was at her reach, albeit, little, the love and cherishing that made up for that was immeasurable.

What went through her mind as she routinely peeled those potatoes, carrots, cut up squash and onions every day for her soup when her hands moved in the exact same way they had the day before and thousands of times before, surely she must have been thinking? She always murmured under her breath things we couldn't hear. There was the shaking of her head as she murmored as if she was placing her complaints to the universe only to pray to God later, thanking him for his blessings, maybe hoping he hadn't heard her complain.

Then there was mi abuela Francisca - a tall, big boned woman of Italian descent. I remember her in two ways, either with a broom in her hands sweeping the patio a million times a day or laboring over a kitchen table while something was cooking on the stove and something baking in the oven. Her kitchen was a large, standalone kitchen separated from the house by a hall from the open courtyard in the middle of the house, much like an Italian house. Women, her daughter and 3 daughter-in-laws, always congregated in there for meal preparations, the men never entered. It was a woman's domain, that I remember being nice, especially when you could sneak in there to taste one of her pasta sauces with some of her white bread, freshly baked and warm from the oven. This while women were loudly fighting for talking room about whatever afflicted them at the moment, passing the mate around. Always mates around. But sometimes, when she was alone in there as the others were enjoying their time together or when she watched us, I saw a different side to her, the same as when she swept. It was as if she was trying to solve an insurmountable problem along with the quick, harsh strokes of the broom or the steady, strong kneading of the bread, which she did so evenly, without a thought about it, just repetition. The same strong, dark, now age freckled hands with which my father kneads his bread at the bakery. I wonder though, what was she thinking, trying to solve? One of her childrens' afflictions or one of her own's, buried deep inside. She also sighed, but she never seemed to tire or wearied. She carried herself strongly, as 'tomorrow is another day, we will see it, we will live it.' But I wonder how she did the raising of 4 kids practically by herself with a traveling husband and one who also had his own demands, being traditionally raised Lebanese. Did she tire and suffer in silence, did she aspire to anything else or did that never cross her mind?

I wish I knew this for both women, even if I know that they both were destined for the traditional women roles in a very macho Hispanic culture, where keeping home and raising children was their sole expectation. But they must have had their own dreams, no matter how small. I just wish I could sevarles un mate and ask them what they were for each of them. Seeing their kids grow up happy with family, sure, but what else? Had Francisca loved her husband, I know Juanita had, at least in the beginning, clearly evident from their courting letters later given to me by my grandfather as a gift. But I know nothing of my grandfather and just like his office door remained locked ever since his death, so did any speaking of him by everyone in the family.

I admire both these women greatly. They both raised great families in each their own way, successfully. And while each have their faults and strengths, they have given me fortitude. I just wish that I could be the age that I am now with both of these two wonderful women alive, around a table, listening to their stories, learning from their wisdom, feeling their heartbreaks. I can hear them now, laughing, preparing yet for another day.

My True Companion

In each of the vows Jay and I wrote when we got married, we each, somewhere promised to put the other person first. Then we would always value the needs of the other person. And while this has always been honored, in a relationship there is usually one giver and one taker. One who at least does a little more than the other in one way and the other one compensates in some other way. In our relationship, I'll admit that Jay is the giver of gifts, of romance, of words, of beauty. I, on the other hand, am the giver of undivided attention and quality time. But Jay is the truly generous one. And I value this more than anything else he can give me.

Saturday afternoon Jay and I went to see The Time Traveler's Wife. We had been trying to get to the new Harry Potter movie since it came out last month, without being able to do so because instead we'd had get togethers with friends for birthdays or evenings on the beach with drinks and food. So now we were able to get my mom to babysit in the afternoon to go to a matinee. We usually go to see things in the order that they come out or of importance to one another, taking turns. So being that Jay read all of the HP books within the first couple of nights of coming out and seen the movies as soon as they made it to the theaters, I had been depressed for the past couple of weeks and he knew that I'd read the Time Traveler's Wife and reallly wanted to see it.

So what did he do? He selflessly put my desires above his in effort to alleviate my sadness and make me happy by taking me to the movie I wanted to see. And yes, we both are romantics and love good love stories. Watching a movie where we could feel the characters' love for one another, irrelevant of time or circumstance, that they will do anything and sacrifice everything for one minute together, with the love of my life is a treasure. It reminds me of all that we went through to be together and how we wouldn't change a thing. We both loved the movie and cried at the end. I love that about us. We and he can do that. It makes me feel as though in those moments the beats of our hearts join one another and find their rhythm to beat as one. That is how our love is. This is when I fall all over again.

Not to mention that he opens the car doors for me still and closes them. He lets me choose the music, although we are so busy talking (not Liam related stuff but things that are about us). In the movies he lifts the arm rest and I reach for his hand, I put my legs up on his. Then we can't wait to discuss the movie on the way home.

On the way home from the movie, right across the street of the library there was a snapping turtle trying to cross the street, ever so slowly. So what does he do? He stops, turns the car around, and at the risk of his hand, he gets out of the car, pushes it and picks it up, placing it on the grass so that it doesn't get run over. Did I say that I love this man to the depths of my being? After all this time we are still dancing to our wedding son by Marc Cohn's, My True Companion.

"You're a great mom"

It was a better afternoon after I picked up Liam today. I feel strange about blogging depressing stuff, this is so not me. If anything, I suffer from anxiety, not depression. But after all my years of counseling I'm smart enough to know that this is situational depression. I just have to change the situations that bring it on. Primarily, being around adults more.

But when I picked up Liam at school and right before I was leaving, his teacher, the fabulous Ms. Wanda said to me in earnest, "You are a wonderful mom." Maybe it's from seeing me with Liam for the past couple of months, our common philosophies, or the way that Liam says positive affirmations to his friends and toys that I say to him in the classroom. But either way, it felt wonderful. It actually allowed me to give myself the pleasure of not doing anything but enjoying Liam and my time without the guilt, like my sister had told me I was entitled to yesterday.

And with Liam being a gem, it was a good afternoon. I now look forward to going to get pizza with my boys and tomorrow seeing "The Time Traveler's Wife" with my love.

The silence is deafening

Today the silence is deafening. Although I knew that I was grocery shopping after dropping Liam off at school, I kept hugging him tightly. Not because of anything else other than I knew I'd miss him. It would only be three hours. Then on the way to the store I wished I had a friend that I could go for coffee with. But they have kids, or jobs, or both, and wish for silence.

I don't even feel like writing (my novel) because that is something else that keeps me cooped up. It's bad when after relying on books for 3 years I don't even feel like reading. I feel like I can't relate or care to relate to the characters. I look forward to picking Liam up and going to buy him a new little car and having Jay come home.

I would love to go to Argentina. Sit around with my aunts, tomar tetita they call it. Laugh, tell stories, go downtown and sit at a cafe leisurely for hours, watch the busy people walk by. Go to my favorite pizza place for my favorite mozzarella and beer. Drown in the love and utter joy only they can provide, like they did when I was a little girl.

Tomorrow will be another day, a better day.

I no longer spill myself away

"She wants perpetually to spill herself away. All her instinct as a woman-the eternal nourisher of children, of men, of society-demand that she give." Anne Morrow Lindbergh wrote this in Gift from the Sea in 1955 and how wise, she could see how women were starting back then to choose between staying home and having careers. Then she writes a couple of paragraphs later, "Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim." This two quotes highly resonated with me in the manner in which I am beginning to feel what she describes, "It is the wilderness in the mind, the desert wastes in the heart through which one wanders lost and a stranger."

What all this amounts to is that I am no longer overwhelmingly needed as I once was. Overwhelmingly is the operative word here. For the past three years of staying home, raising Liam, making dinner, and cleaning house all required so much to keep the scales from tipping. But now, Jay goes to work, Liam goes to preschool where he is well adjusted and happy, and here I sit, knowing I am ready to move on. For the past three years I have felt overwhelmed by Liam's sensitivities and the behavior issues I helped create by not being consistent enough or mindful enough of his needs for recharging, plus the demands of household tasks and the stretching of that copper penny. But I am no longer overwhelmed and back to being me, the person that can either live overwhelmed or bored, having a hard time living in the in between. There goes my Buddhist learnings again.

So I have updated my resume and found a job for which I'm applying and dreading not getting a first call back. How long can I sit here? I watch Jay struggle with a job that brings him no joy, only to come home and work on wood pendants to sell, not only because he loves his craft so much but also because we need the money. And what have I done? I've not contributed financially. I wouldn't work until I knew that Liam was doing well and now that he is, I feel lost and more alone than ever. I guess this is how it feels when fathers work, kids go to school and you are left behind. This is what my father warned me about. "The conversation will die," he once said, referring to the disconnect between husband and wife. I just didn't think this change would happen so quickly and makes me wonder how my mother could have endured living in this country this way for 25 years.

Now I see why I have been pulling myself away from Jay more and more every day. I have felt shameful in taking me time to find my way back. He allowed me to stay home until I was ready, dropping hints and I spent time fighting his arguments because I wasn't ready to deal with it. And now that is what is bothering me so much, that I took far longer than I thought I would in finding my way back. There goes me, the practical, project oriented, deadline driven A type personality whose rigidity her. I am always 37 steps ahead of everyone on completing tasks and now I took my time, without so much as a gant chart to drive me to completion. And while it sounds so zen to just go along every day mindfully, and I have enjoyed it tremendously, I feel like I failed at what I do best, keep on keeping on. And while my sister says that after all of the difficulty I had adjusting to Liam's sensitivities, I deserve time to heal, regroup now that he's at school. But I can't without the guilt. I can only live either in overwhelmed mode or in guilt mode for not being overwhelmed, because if I'm not overwhelmed then clearly I'm not doing enough. Hence why I could quit a career, start a new job, start and finish a Masters program and a new job in two years time, oh yes, and get through a bedridden pregnanacy.

So now I am growing restless and depression is seeking in. This is exactly what happened to my parents and I'll be dammed if it happens to me. So here it goes cosmos, I am putting out my wish to the universe that I need to go back to work and become fulfilled once again in a career I love. Cheers!!

Teacher's Assistant

My little talking preschooler has been chosen to become his teacher's assistant. When I picked him up this morning his teacher, the fabulous Ms. Wanda informed me that she is going to clone him and keep him around so that he can be her TA.

During lunch Ms. Wanda told a student not to talk with food in her mouth, to finish swallowing before speaking. The little girl happened to be sitting next to him and when she took another bite of her food, she spoke again, forgetting. So Liam looked at her, pointed his finger in her face and said, "Ms. Wanda said not to talk with your mouth full of food. Swallow and then talk. Okay."

Ms. Wanda told me that she can't believe how well he speaks (and how much) for a just recently turned 3 year old boy and cannot believe his memory. "He remembers after I've said something once and then repeats it to the other kids, like he's keeping them in line." Ahhh. My little boy worries me and yet makes me so proud. That is so like me. I am the truth teller and the order keeper. And at his age, I was a tattle teller. He amazes me every single day in so many ways.